


a hopeful song we barely understood

by superdupergust



Category: Women's Soccer RPF
Genre: Character Study, Christianity, F/F, POV Second Person, Religion, Sexuality, Tobin-centric, Weddings, a bit of internalized homophobia in the beginning, but tooth-rotting fluff at the end to make up for it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-22
Updated: 2020-05-22
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:48:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24316048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/superdupergust/pseuds/superdupergust
Summary: You think about Jesus asking all the little children to come to Him, and how He never said anything about making them wear dresses.Five snapshots of Tobin in church.
Relationships: Tobin Heath/Christen Press
Comments: 36
Kudos: 184





	a hopeful song we barely understood

**Author's Note:**

> A quick disclaimer: This is, like all rpf works, fictional. I know that Tobin considers herself a Christian, but I don’t know the details of her religious beliefs (denomination, etc.). This is all speculation and heavily based on my own experience with Christianity. So if something I’ve written here doesn’t mesh with something she has said, I mean no offense. 
> 
> Title from “When You Believe” by Whitney Houston & Mariah Carey.

You’re seven years old the first time you refuse.

Your mom is holding out a dress toward you with an expectant smile on her face. It’s Easter morning, and this is part of your surprise, though not nearly as welcome as the chocolate. It’s a new dress, fancier than any you’ve worn before, even in Easters past.

It’s fluffy and white with impossible amounts of lace. Your skin starts to itch just looking at it.

You’ve worn dresses every Sunday since you were in diapers. It’s just what happens. Every week, you pick out a dress to put on. You tug on it all through Sunday school, hating the way the material clings to the thick tights you wear beneath. Hating the pointy, bulky shoes you have to strap your feet into. (One time, you go to the bathroom and yank off the tights and the shoes and shove them in the cabinet under the sink, because the boys want to play soccer after the service is over, and you know you can’t play in those shoes. You get in trouble for that, both for playing in your dress, and for lying about not knowing where your shoes are. It’s worth it.)

But still, you never refuse.

Not until today.

The thought of wearing that dress…it’s too much. You can’t put it into words, but you know that you’re going to feel squirmy and awful until the moment you can take it off.

You think about Jesus asking all the little children to come to Him, and how He never said anything about making them wear dresses.

So you cross your arms and stamp your feet and say with all the authority of your seven years of life that you won’t wear that dress, no matter what.

You can see the hurt that flashes across your mom’s face, and it’s almost enough to make you back down. Then you think of the hot, scratchy lace, the way you won’t be able to concentrate on anything else for hours. And you stand your ground.

In the end, you win, sort of.

You come to what your mom calls a “compromise.” You still have to wear a skirt, but you pick the one that’s made out of denim, and you get to pair it with your favorite shirt - the orange one, with the sparkles.

It’s enough for now.

One day, you tell yourself. One day you’ll be old enough that you won’t have to wear a skirt. You’ll be one of the grown-up women who wear their nice jeans or smooth black pants. 

_Just a little longer,_ you think, tugging at a loose thread on your skirt while your parents drop you off in the Sunday school room.

Just a little longer.

##

You’re sixteen, and it’s been years since your parents have forced you to wear a dress to church (though you still break out skirts for Christmas and Easter, just to make your mom happy).

It’s a Wednesday night, and you’re in the youth group room, the same one you’ve been visiting since you were thirteen. You know everything about this room, from the water stain on the ceiling in the far corner, to the way you have to stop the popcorn machine two minutes before the timer goes off, or you’ll set off the smoke alarm.

It’s a second home, you think. Or maybe a third home, after the pitch, maybe church and soccer are tied, but God should come first, but you feel closest to God on the soccer field, and then you realize your thoughts are spiraling, and you have no idea what the youth pastor is talking about. So you try to focus, taking your eyes off the water-stained ceiling and bringing them back to the man standing at the front of the room. He’s discussing forgiveness, but only a few minutes later, the talk is over. (You feel a little guilty for zoning out, but really, it isn’t like you’ve never heard a sermon on forgiveness before.)

Then the band stands up to play the altar call song, and when you see that Ashley is the one singing the lead, your heart starts beating a little harder.

She’s new, just moved here a few months ago, and you’ve been gone several Wednesdays because of soccer, but every time you hear her sing, it’s like you’re floating.

You wish you knew her better, outside of how her voice sounds while accompanied by guitar and keyboard.

You don’t know much about her at all, only her first name and that she just turned seventeen and that her favorite color is lime green (the kind of things you learn during one of the many ice-breakers that must come in the _How To Run a Youth Group Handbook_ ). 

You try to wrest your mind back to where it needs to be - focused on the song and the words and their meaning, but as soon as you manage it, the song ends.

You decide you’ll pray for an extra few minutes tonight, to make up for how much your mind is wandering today.

The band disperses, and everyone starts breaking off into groups. The best part of the night awaits - when you can just hang out with all your friends until the adult service ends. You glance over at Ashley, standing alone at the edge of the stage, and you think of going over, saying _great job tonight, you have a really good voice_ , but suddenly complimenting someone on their worship seems like a weird thing to do, even if they do it in front of a microphone. You can’t think of anything else to say to her, and your throat goes dry when she looks up and notices you watching her.

You jerk your eyes away, feeling warmth invade your cheeks even though you’re not sure why, and you hate how you suddenly feel off balance. So you go to the one thing you’re most sure of in this room: the foosball table. It’s so old it’s nearly falling apart, but you know the weight of each ball, the way the handle all the way to the left sticks if you try to spin it. On the wall to the side of the table hangs a testament to how often you’re here - a messy whiteboard showing, among random doodles and inside jokes and scripture references, a tally of how many games you’ve gone undefeated.

It’s a really big tally.

You add another two victories to it without much effort, but then someone suggests playing teams, and suddenly Ashley is standing right beside you, her arm brushing yours, and your stomach swoops down to the floor and up again to lodge in your throat.

“Can I be on your team?” she asks, her blue ( _so blue_ ) eyes hesitant as she waits (too long, you’ve got to say something, how long were you staring at her eyes, _shi- shoot_ ) for your answer.

You clear your throat. “Only if you like to win,” you respond, somehow managing to wrangle your lips into their trademark smirk.

Ashley bites her bottom lip as she smiles in return and says, “It’s my favorite thing.”

“Yeah? Mine, too,” you respond, your smile growing into something genuine, even if you suddenly feel a bit breathless. It’s like someone has taken a string and wound it around your chest and pulled it a bit too tight, and for some reason, you suddenly have a vision of Ashley holding the other end.

“Makes sense. I hear you’re a big-time soccer star.” 

You shrug a shoulder. “I do alright. How are you at foosball?”

Now it’s her turn to smirk. “Guess you’ll have to find out,” she says, and something happens to your insides, like they’re turning upside down or inside out or both at once.

Then she turns to the foosball table, and the game starts, but it takes you a couple minutes before you stop feeling shaky and off-balance and fall into the rhythm of the game. Even with a slow start, though, you still slaughter the poor boys on the other side of the table with a final score of 10-2. 

After the game ends, you move aside, keeping to your usual habit of limiting yourself to three games. (If you play any more than that, people start getting annoyed at losing all the time, and then no one will play you.)

You find yourself in a corner with Ashley, on one of the giant beanbag chairs, and she’s smiling at you, and you’re smiling back, even though you can’t think of a single thing to say.

Then Ashley’s smile drops, and she looks down at her hands and clears her throat.

She looks back at you, opens her mouth, but says nothing.

“What?” you ask, and you feel relief that you’ve finally said something, even if it’s just a single word.

Ashley takes a deep breath, quirks up a side of her mouth again. (You think she’s wearing some kind of lip gloss, maybe, because her lips are slightly shiny.) “We make a pretty good team, huh?”

You’re relieved at the easy question, and you lean back, relaxing a little. “Yeah, for sure. Next time I need a partner, I’m hitting you up.”

She smiles fully at your words, but it isn’t as bright as the one she shot you after your victory, your hands slapping together in a high five. Something in her eyes still looks scared, and you find yourself wanting to fix it. You wait for her next words, anxious to put whatever fears she has at ease.

“Good. I thought so, too. What if…what if we hung out some other time? Together?”

You’re not quite sure why she looks so nervous about asking that, but you think maybe she just has a hard time making friends. She’s still pretty new, after all.

And the thought that she wants to hang out with you - it makes you feel soft and warm and too eager. You swallow and nod. “Yeah, that’d be cool. I’m pretty busy next week, but I have some time Saturday. What’d you have in mind?”

“I was thinking maybe we could go out for dinner? And a movie? If there’s anything out you wanna see.” The words fall out of her mouth all on top of one another, and it takes a moment for you to process what she’s said.

“Um. Yeah, sure. I have no idea what’s out, but I’m not picky, so whatever you like’ll be fine.”

She blinks. “So…yes, then?”

“Yeah?” You smile, because you’ve already said yes and because you’re happy at the idea of spending time with her even if it makes you a little nervous and because she’s starting to grin back at you in a way that makes it impossible _not_ to. 

Ashley breathes out an audible sigh of relief.

“Oh. Oh, good. I just, y’know, I thought so, but I wasn’t positive if you were…” Ashley glances around the room, clusters of teenagers gathered into groups, none of them particularly close, but she drops her voice anyway, “like me.”

Your brow wrinkles. “Like you, how?”

She checks your surroundings again, leans in closer, and you unconsciously mirror her, scooting forward until your face is only a foot away from hers.

You keep your eyes on your hands, not sure why, but you feel like you can’t make eye contact with her while you’re this close.

“You know. If you liked girls,” she says, and her voice is soft, only a fraction above a whisper, but the words echo in your skull like she shouted them with a megaphone pressed up against your head.

Your ears are ringing.

Your eyes snap back to hers.

The room is suddenly two hundred degrees warmer, and you have the urge to walk out and find a pool somewhere and jump into it with all your clothes on.

You open your mouth to say words because Ashley is still staring at you meaningfully, because she’s just told you a really personal thing about herself, and she thinks-

She thinks _you_ are-

“I don’t,” you choke out, and you’re shaking your head, over and over, and she’s pulling back, her eyes wide and face flushed.

“Oh god.” She puts a hand over her mouth, then keeps talking, her words slightly muffled. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know why I thought-“

You try to laugh it off, but it feels forced, like your brain is disconnected and your body is trying to work on autopilot without its central processor. “No worries. We can still hang if you want. Y’know, as friends.”

You don’t mean that. You don’t want to be around her, not anymore. Not right now and not in three days.

Because the idea of going on a date-

You’ve never understood it. Boys are fun to play sports with, but they smell and they’re kind of annoying and you can’t imagine ever wanting to kiss one. 

You figured maybe it was something you’d grow into. Never really gave it much thought.

But now you picture the same thing with Ashley. You imagine doing everything like in a movie, staring into each other’s eyes over pasta and holding hands during a movie and then afterward, standing by the car, and maybe she would lean in or maybe you would, and then your lips would press together…

And you would be kissing.

Kissing a girl.

Kissing Ashley, with her soft brown hair and her blue, blue eyes and her pretty pink lips-

Your heart thunders in your chest and your lips feel like someone has shocked them with static electricity and your fingers tingle, and you wonder briefly if this is what a heart attack feels like. If you’re never going to join the national team like you’ve always dreamed of because you had a heart defect that the doctors never discovered and you’re about to keel over dead in the youth group room of the church you grew up in.

Suddenly you realize Ashley has been rambling quietly at you, and you try to force your ears to work. “-and you won’t tell anyone, right? Please? You can’t. My parents don’t know, and I-“

You reach out instinctively, resting your hand over hers, and she stops mid-sentence, staring at your clasped hands on the beanbag chair.

You jerk your arm back, palm on fire where it had touched Ashley’s skin.

You force yourself to make eye contact again. “Hey, no, of course I won’t tell anyone. It’s none of my business. And for what it’s worth, it’s totally chill. I’m just…I’m just not-“ You can’t say it out loud, because suddenly you’re pretty sure you _are_ , but you can’t just _say_ that and you’re in _church_ and you can’t _lie_ and you’re _freaking out_ and you just want to be alone on the pitch with a ball at your feet so you don’t have to think anymore.

“It’s okay. Sorry I assumed.” She smiles at you, a little sad, and you have the sudden urge to ask her how she knew.

(To ask her how she knew before you did.)

She leaves before you realize you don’t have her number. You never do hang out.

You only see her three more times, and then you hear through the grapevine that her parents found another church across town they liked better.

You try to let yourself think it’s for the best.

##

You’re twenty years old, and you’ve barely been to church since you started college.

It’s not an intentional thing.

You tried, at first. The first church, the one a friend of a friend of your mom’s had suggested, was just too far away to get to without a car on campus.

At the second, you sat through the worst sermon of your life, every word a sledgehammer to the fragile, tentative peace you’d made with being gay in the two years since you’d realized. You hadn’t even _done_ anything yet, hadn’t had time to explore it like you’d promised yourself you would once you got to college.

And because of that one sermon, it was another two months before you could even summon the guts to attend one of the GSA meetings you had been so excited about before.

Turns out, the word “abomination” can really get stuck in your head.

The third church you tried checked all the boxes - nice people, good songs, solid sermons based in love rather than hellfire. You went a few times, but then once a week became once a month, which by now has turned into once or twice per semester. You blame your crazy schedule, soccer and studies and your social life. (Because you do have one, now. You’ve had two girlfriends and even one drunken hookup, though you don’t really plan to make a habit of that.)

It isn’t that your faith isn’t a priority for you anymore. You read your Bible and your devotional every single morning. You pray at meals, before every game, before you go to bed at night. You thank God for beautiful sunsets, and you feel His presence when you go hiking with friends in the mountains, reveling in the peace that only comes from being so close to creation.

But church almost feels like another thing entirely.

Even though everyone is always warm and welcoming and there are those ladies who always remember your name and invite you to sit with them. 

You love the song service, everyone’s voices lifted together in praise. It’s the sermons that are hard. Sometimes it’s fine. Sometimes you can nod along and write notes and highlight passages, emerging refreshed and challenged and ready for the week ahead.

But other times you finish the service with a sick feeling in your stomach, hot guilt and condemnation, because every generic reference to “sin” suddenly sounds like it’s being directed straight at you. Then anger enters the mix because you hate that, despite your family and friends’ acceptance, despite your _own_ acceptance, these feelings can still find a way to creep back in.

So it’s easier just not to go. It’s easier to pray and love God on your own, the way you know best.

##

You’re twenty-six, and after several years of bouncing around, you’ve finally settled down in Portland.

It’s an amazing city, full of a wide range of beliefs, and when your friend tells you about a church with a lesbian lead pastor, you almost think it’s too good to be true.

But it’s real.

You visit, once, cautiously hopeful, and it’s everything you wished for in all the churches you visited in college. You find a congregation made up of people of all ages and colors and genders and sexualities. You find, for the first time in your life, a church that offers not only tolerance, but full acceptance. 

You nearly cry during the last song of the worship service. Not because of guilt or anger or sadness, but because your heart is so full. You feel a tremendous peace, like you were always meant to find this place. Like God had planned this surprise for you and had just been waiting for you to find it.

You emerge from the service knowing that this is it. You’ve found your place.

You don’t get to go every week, with away games and Christen’s visits and life in general.

But you go when you can, and every time, it’s exactly what you need. Over the course of the first few months, you get to know people and even make a few friends.

It’s healing, the atmosphere of this church. You’ve been at peace with your sexuality for years, have known that God accepts and loves you no matter what. But even with that knowledge, at times, it feels like there’s a sort of disconnect between your faith and your sexuality. Like they’re two different parts of you that will never quite mesh.

But slowly, slowly, that disconnect begins to be replaced by a tether, tenuous at first, strengthened every time the pastor utters the words “my wife” from the pulpit, every time you hear the story of David and Jonathan told in a way that makes sense.

Christen goes with you occasionally, though she considers herself more spiritual than religious. But she likes meeting your church friends, and the two of you even have coffee with the pastor and her wife once, and the conversation is fascinating. You love watching Christen talk about her beliefs, the way she gets passionate and excited and starts to talk with her hands. (It’s your favorite thing, when she does that.)

(Everything she does is your favorite.)

But having Christen there is just a bonus. Even on the weeks when you go by yourself, it still feels right. 

You think here, for the first time, you might feel closer to God than you do on a soccer field.

##

You’re thirty-one, and you’re getting married today.

Nothing has prepared you for this feeling.

You expected to feel happy, to feel excited, to feel a little bit nervous.

What you don’t expect is how _normal_ it feels. You’ve been looking forward to it, dreaming of this day for so long. And now it’s here, and it’s happening, just like you planned. You move through preparations and photos that feel like they take ten seconds instead of three hours, and then suddenly you’re in a tux, standing in a church in front of a small congregation of family and friends, and you know this is exactly where you want to be.

Then Christen walks in, wearing a white dress.

You know it’s white, but that’s the extent of your knowledge, because you can’t take your gaze off of Christen’s face, and as soon as she’s close enough for you to make eye contact, everything becomes a blur of tears. Still, you meet her radiant smile with one of your own, so large it makes your cheeks ache after only seconds. You didn’t think you would cry, aren’t prepared for it. Someone in your bridal party presses a tissue discreetly into your palm, and you mutter a quick thanks without taking your eyes off of Christen.

She’s is almost to you, just a few feet away, when you suddenly have a flash of another white dress from long ago, the fluffy, lacy one your mom tried to make you wear.

You remember standing up for yourself for the first time, saying, _This is who I am, and Jesus will still love me_.

You remember sitting in a beanbag chair across from a pretty girl, panicking because you realize you want to kiss her.

You remember, somehow, in those few seconds, hundreds of tiny flashes, leading to this day. Moments of questioning and self-doubt, moments of reassurance and love, moments of pain, moments of blessing, quiet moments and loud moments and moments when you just _knew_ God was there with you.

This is one of those moments.

It’s like you can sense all of Heaven smiling down when Christen is finally standing at your side, and when you reach out and take her hand, you feel so much love you could explode with it. 

And you think she understands, because she squeezes your fingers tightly, mouths _I love you_ , meets your gaze through tears of her own.

The ceremony seems to take place in two realities at once - one where you’re completely, almost preternaturally aware of every syllable you utter, every breath you breathe, every shift of your hands, the cool weight of the wedding band when Christen slips it onto your finger. In the other reality, everything passes in a blur. One moment, you’re grasping hands and turning toward the front of the room, and the next, the pastor is announcing you as _wives_ to the cheering, standing crowd.

You’re not quite sure which reality is the true one, or if it’s some combination of both.

All you know is that nothing has ever felt so right and perfect in your life. Before God and everyone who matters to you, you’ve done the most sacred and beautiful thing possible: married the love of your life.

You think, as you take your wife’s hand and begin the journey up the aisle together, that this is the first time you’ve fully understood the word _joy_. 

When the two of you reach the other side of the doors, you know you’re supposed to rush off to the smaller, side chapel to get ready to take pictures, so your guests won’t be waiting too long for you at the reception.

Instead, you step aside as soon as the doors swing shut behind you, and draw her into your arms, and she returns the hug just as tightly.

“Guess we just did that, huh?” you ask, your nose brushing against hers as you lean in.

It’s not the world’s best kiss, both of you smiling too much for it to work quite the way it’s supposed to.

You couldn’t care less. It’s perfect.

“We did. You’re my wife now,” Christen returns, and her voice squeaks a little on the word _wife_.

“And you’re mine.”

“Forever.”

She pulls you in for another embrace, and her arms around you feel like home.

“Chris?”

“Hmm?”

“I love you.” It suddenly feels important to say it, though the words have passed your lips a thousand times. But this is the first time as a married couple.

You hear her voice, a little choked, as she replies, “I love you, too, Tobin.”

Over her shoulder, you see a cross hanging on the wall, and you close your eyes, offering a silent prayer, short and simple: _Thank you_. It isn’t the first time you have thanked God for Christen, nor will it be the last. Not when she’s the best thing in your life. You’ll never stop thanking Him for her, for the opportunity to be by her side every day and do your best to bring her a fraction of the joy she brings you.

Then the doors open behind you, and the moment is over, the wedding planner politely directing you to the chapel where the photographer will be meeting you.

“Ready?” you ask her, and she leans in, presses one more soft kiss against your lips.

“Let’s go.”

**Author's Note:**

> I have a cute coffee shop AU in the works, I swear! I just…had to get this out, because it wouldn’t leave me alone. It was super cathartic for me to write, and if you’ve reached this far, hopefully you enjoyed it! I would love to hear your thoughts in the comments below. You can also stop by and say hi on Tumblr @superdupergust.


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